The Blackberry Walk

Never really written fiction before, but I had an idea for a story so I'm giving it a go. This should be the first chapter of many. The searing sun blazed through Nottingham city centre. Forty degrees heat was forecast for today, and what was foretold was fulfilled with excess. Sweating profusely, Dave staggered through Old Market Square, the light from the sun being made all the more unbearable from the bleating OLED screens plastered over the Victorian buildings which surrounded. Each screen shone with videos exhibiting scantily clad, exotic women showcasing a myriad of ‘exciting the new products’ - to these exciting new products, however, Dave had become completely numb. It was the usual fads of augmented reality glasses and high quality implant earphones and the like. “If only there was technology to do something about this heat”, Dave grumbled to himself, audibly. Wading through the crowds of Old Market Square, he made his way over to the Corn Exchange, taking the lift down to the underground portion of Lace Market. The lift descended gracelessly, clunking periodically. Dave chuckled to himself mildly at the chorus of whispered curses being placed upon Nottingham City Council for the poor maintenance of the lift. “After how much they spend on events in Old Market Square, they could save a few bob for fixing this lift”, Dave overheard. “If they were smart with money, they wouldn’t be forever bankrupt”, nasally muttered the lady’s husband. And with a thud, the lift arrived. The gate-like iron doors opened to a cool, dry, dusty gust of air - very refreshing after the stuffy stench of the lift. Under the dull, pasta bowl-shaped, orange lights, whose cables were strung across the limestone walls, Dave picked up a pocket map by the entrance - for however many times Dave travels this way, the different labyrinthine tunnels and caves look too much alike to distinguish. Following the rightward tunnel, heading in a northerly direction, Dave began his walk to the Green-Light Quarter. The Orange-Light Quarter where he began was the most accessible of the underground markets. Vendors hollered back and forth, selling meat, fish, and vegetables, freshly baked bread loaves, charcuterie, and cheese. And whilst there was a degree of segregation between different produce, the ventilation was inadequate to attack the cumulative smell, which could, on a bad day, be quite repellent. Passing the various counters, Dave took special care to hold his nose and power walk past the fish monger whose fish possessed a particularly unique odour today. The loudness of sellers was then replaced by the screams and laughter of children, who weaved in and out the small alleyways as their parents shopped. These alleyways possessed the most unique shops, owing to the rock-bottom rents. The low rents let many a local specialty shop operate however niche; particularly on a Saturday, many part-time hobbyists show up to sell. The Blue-Light Quarter into which Dave now headed was populated with many of these smaller stalls, selling paintings, handmade crafts, used tools, and various trinkets of all kinds. “Could I have a closer look at the painting at the top there, if you don’t mind”, Dave asked. The gaunt-faced young artist, whose near-translucent pale complexion made it seem as if he’d lived in the underground from birth, pulled himself up from his collapsible camping chair to take down the painting of interest. The artist’s style was to copy - or at least attempt to copy - admired paintings of old, changing the colour pallettes with either a lighter Vaporwave-like aesthetic, of pastel baby blues and pinks, or the darker Outrun aesthetic of navy blue, mauve, and yellow. After closer inspection, Dave found he quite fond of the work, and handed over a fifty-pound note. He couldn’t tell which Renaissance painting was being aped, but he could tell the scene was Vaporwave pastiche of the fall of Adam and Eve from Eden. He thanked the young artist, bagged the work, and continued on his journey. This deep into the underground markets, beyond the Blue-Light Quarter, the crowds which were present prior began to thin. Glued to his map, making sure not to accidentally follow any narrower, seedier alleys towards the Red-Light Quarter - whose major business is what the name would suggest - Dave saw the yellowish lights, the colour of the lights which connect quarters, become green; and seeing this, he sighed a hearty breath of home-coming comfort. Ever since his uni days, Dave had been coming to the Green-Light Quarter to sit, read, and drink coffee. The limestone walls were, unlike most of the underground; they were painted, first with a layer of whitewash, and then with Art Nouveau swirls, swooshes, and pastel bouquets. The Greens, as the area was locally known, had several libraries of antiquarian books, with there being only a nominal members fee to be allowed to borrow; these books could be read at the numerous coffee shops dotted around which were cut out into the walls. The coffee shops were no popup market stall, but a permanent fixture, built sturdily of wooden planks stained dark. They possessed no state-of-the-art coffee makers, nor any technology for that matter, bar of course the green lamps lighting the region and the emergency telephones. The Greens were a quiet place to be at peace and read; and occasionally, have a lively conversation with the many interesting people who passed by. For a Saturday, the coffee shops were surprisingly quiet: all but empty save for a few. Dave picked up the book he was reading the weekend prior and turned to the bookmark he’d left there. Sipping his coffee, he sat in his Shangri-La. The soft atmosphere at once hardened. The thin, dry air had become moist and dense. Dave’s nerves twitched in anticipation, before he heard the bell of the door chime. In walked a girl, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, dressed in the skin-sleek fashion of the day, revealing her goddess-like physique, whose bright, thick copper hair was like softened unwound cabling tied up into a high ponytail with a small parted fringe in the front. She looked Dave’s way. Her irises were a fiery scarlet, and her eyes were locked on and focused upon him like a red laser-pointer, but not focused like a laser, but diffuse. Her gaze was diffuse; diffuse as if she was not only looking at him but through him, past him, beyond him: beyond him to some next world. She drew nearer, and the scent of pheromone-enhanced perfume, a smell with which Dave was familiar, overwhelmed him; and with that, the gaze, and her sheer presence, Dave felt like but a boy. She ordered a coffee and sat down beside him. There was a small pause of still, stiff silence. “What are you reading?”, she asked with a small, innocent smile, pointing her eyes up to him. Dave choked for words, but managed to let out a small murmur, “Robinson Crusoe”. She looked away for a moment, looked over at the antiquarian book shelves, and turned her gaze back to Dave. Her head tilting, her voice lilting, she poked him gently on his arm. “Have you heard of Orchard Online?”